“I know,” I say. “I promised Erik we would save him, though. And we will—when we can.”

Something hard crosses over Heron’s expression. “Erik is more reckless than you are,” he says, his voice low. “He won’t be strung along with promises, and we need Goraki’s numbers, as meager as they might be, if we’re going to stand against the Kalovaxians.”

“Erik has a weak hold on Goraki as it is,” Artemisia says with a sniff. “He’s the Kaiser’s bastard son, and now that his mother isn’t—” She breaks off, glancing at me, though I’m careful not to give a reaction. “Now that she isn’t around anymore, his hold is weaker than ever. If he does decide to forsake our alliance and go chasing after his Kalovaxian brother, he would likely do it alone. He can’t be foolish enough not to know that.”

“He just lost his mother, and S?ren is the only family he has left,” Heron says. “He’s not foolish; he understands the risk. He just might not care about it.”

Before Art and I can respond, Heron quickens his stride, outpacing us by a few feet.

“They’ve been spending a lot of time together,” Art says when he’s out of earshot, her voice wary.

I’m not surprised. Erik told me he was interested in Heron, and though Heron is far more guarded about his heart, I remember how red his cheeks would get around Erik, how he would turn shy and awkward all of a sudden.

“How long?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Heron isn’t one to spill all the details of his personal life, unlike other people I could name,” she says with a pointed glance in my direction. “But I think it started with the molo varu. I would catch him with it sometimes, writing messages, reading others, but when I asked him if there was any news from Goraki, he would say no. Whatever it was, after the battle, things seemed to progress quickly. They spend most nights together.”

“It’s good,” I tell her. “I imagine they both need comfort and companionship. They’ve both faced losses. I’m glad they’ve at least found something positive in the midst of so much war and pain and grief.”

“I suppose it is good,” Artemisia allows, eyes narrowing. “But it’s moved so quickly…and losing Leonidas destroyed Heron. When I met him after he’d escaped the Earth Mine, he was a shadow of a person, all raw wounds and broken bits. He’s rebuilt himself slowly over the last year, painstakingly. I think having you and a purpose has been better for him than you realize. It’s the strange thing about Heron—most people who have lost as much as he has close themselves off. It’s how you and I survived, and Blaise even more so, I think. But Heron is different. He doesn’t hold people at arm’s length. He holds on to them like a drowning man. It’s something I’ve admired, but it scares me as well. I’m not keen on seeing his heart break again.”

I hear the warning in her voice clearly.

“I’ll do what I can to keep Erik on our side,” I tell her. “But I didn’t realize you were such a romantic.”

Artemisia glares at me. “I’m not,” she says sharply. “I just can’t stand moping.”

“Of course,” I say.

“You aren’t moping,” she says after a moment. “I thought you would be. You’d grown attached to the prinkiti—to S?ren. And to Blaise, for that matter. And now here you are without either of them.”

I bite my bottom lip. “I’m not going to lie and tell you I don’t miss S?ren. Of course I do. And I miss Blaise as well, and the people we used to be to one another. But Blaise said that I will always choose Astrea at the end of the day, and right now especially, Astrea needs me. I’m of no use to her if I’m worrying about someone without the sense to worry about himself.”

Artemisia glances sideways at me and nods once decisively.

“Good,” she says. “And now we don’t have to talk about your heart ever again.”

A moment passes in silence before I ask a question that has been on my mind for some time. “And your heart?” I ask her. “I haven’t seen Spiros in a while. Not since Sta’Crivero.”

“Oh, he’s around, but I think he’s keeping his distance from me, and by extension you,” she says with a shrug. “I seem to have hurt his feelings.”

“It seemed like he liked you,” I tell her. “Not as a friend, but as something different.”

Art laughs. “Yes, he wasn’t very subtle. Hence the hurt feelings.”

“You don’t like him?” I ask.

She’s quiet for a second. “I do, but it isn’t the same. It isn’t the way you feel about S?ren and Blaise, or the way Heron feels about Erik. I wish it were, even though that would make things so needlessly complicated. But no, I don’t like him like that. I’ve never really liked anyone in that way, even years ago, before the mines, when all the girls my age were getting crushes and swooning….Well, I’ve never been a swooner, I suppose.”

“Oh,” I say, uncertain of how else to respond.

She shrugs. “I don’t mean that I don’t…you know…love people. There are people I find attractive, I suppose. I just…I’m not attracted to them in that all-consuming way it seems to affect the rest of you.”

“I understand,” I tell her, and it’s at least half-true.

The rest of the walk passes in a silence that is not uncomfortable. Artemisia is an enigma who has revealed herself to me on her terms, in slivers and shades and hints that have slowly come to form a hazily defined portrait of her. Maybe the image will never be entirely complete, but maybe it’s all the more beautiful for it.

WHEN I DREAM, I DREAM of Cress. She stands on the bow of a Kalovaxian ship, near the dragon figurehead, bone-pale hands clasped behind her back. Her gown is made of thick, billowing smoke, curling around her figure in dark swirls that twist and writhe over her skin. Her white hair is cut bluntly at her shoulders, just as it was the last time I saw her and the time before that, the edges singed. It doesn’t grow anymore, I realize. It’s dead at the roots.

She must feel me there, because she turns, her face sharp and shadowed and bloodless. At first, she looks right through me, but then her eyes refocus and meet mine. Her mouth curves into a grim smile.

“You’re here to haunt me,” she says, sounding unsurprised. “I confess, I hoped you would be.”

I open my mouth to tell her that she’s the one haunting me, before I realize what’s so strange about the scene—Cress is on a boat, and though it is rocking wildly back and forth as if in a storm, she looks serene.

“You aren’t seasick,” I say.

She turns her face to look out at the dark and violent sea. “No,” she says. “I don’t get seasick anymore. A lot has changed since you died.”

“I’m not dead,” I tell her.

Her smile turns sad. “When you thought I was dead, did you feel it?” she asks me.

For a moment, I don’t know how to answer.

“No,” I admit. “But I didn’t kill you myself. When I gave the poison to Elpis, I knew there was no turning back. I hated myself for it, but I didn’t have time to linger over that. There was so much to do still, so much to plan. I didn’t have time to stop and feel your death until after I knew you’d survived.”

Cress frowns. “Elpis,” she says. “Was that the girl’s name? I didn’t think I remembered it.”

“You wouldn’t,” I say. “I don’t know if you ever thought of her at all.”

“But I must have remembered it somewhere,” she says, frown deepening. She takes one step toward me, then another, until she’s within arm’s reach. “I couldn’t dream it otherwise.”

“This isn’t your dream,” I tell her, but she ignores me.

“I don’t feel your death, either,” she tells me, sounding vaguely disappointed. She’s close enough now that I can feel her breath against my skin, and that sensation jars me. I can feel it as if she’s really standing in front of me. “I thought I would. But I don’t feel much of anything anymore.”

“I’m not dead,” I say again, my voice stronger this time. “You didn’t kill me. I’m stronger than ever now, and when we meet again, we will end this once and for all. And I assure you, when that day comes, you will feel something.”

Her eyes bore into mine, one corner of her mouth quirking up into a mocking smile. She reaches out to touch my face, but unlike the last time, her hand isn’t hot. Instead it feels like ice against my skin. I flinch away from her, but that only seems to amuse her and she keeps her hand pressed firmly to my cheek.

“Do you know why you held your own in our last battle?” she asks me.

I don’t answer, but she doesn’t seem to expect me to.

“Because you made a patchwork quilt of warriors from different countries with different beliefs, different goals, and though your numbers were impressive, you made a grave mistake. Because in a quilt like that, all it takes is for one thread to be cut, and then the whole thing comes apart. It should make for quite the spectacle. I only wish you could be here to watch it unravel.”